Exit Wounds
by awildthing
Summary: The Trinity tries to find its way after the end (beginning) of the world. Non-linear narrative; Alex/Hal.
1. and nothing can ever be the same

_I_

It was like that song from _Rocky Horror_; "it's astounding, life is fleeting; madness takes its toll." When she laughed at the irony of it all, blood bubbled up and poured through her twisted lips. She died wearing her best dress and some tubes around her neck like some kind of morbid jewelry. She died with a slack expression on her face because her last thoughts were about a dumb movie that her brothers weren't allowed to see yet, not until they grew up. And really, that's got to be the absolute _shittest_ last thought, especially after having been on the worst date of her life (she didn't even get laid!) and then stalked and killed in a dirty basement room by an English guy with weirdly parted hair who kept checking his Twitter.

Apparently her murder wasn't a good enough distraction from social media feeds.

She watched from the shadows in the corner as they coaxed her blood through the tubes and hung her up on the metal grating like one would a suit in a closet. It must have been a trick of the shitty lighting or something because sometimes their eyes were black, but she withdrew farther into the darkness anyway. Just in case. Because apparently her life couldn't get any fucking creepier.

And then when they were gone she went and sat down in front of her skin-suit body and crossed her legs. And realized that she was there on the floor but she was also there, hung on the metal grating for someone to find. Jesus Christ, they'd even left the tubes in! Who the hell were these people? Had she wandered into some sort of cult thing by mistake?

She was supposed to be on a vacation with her family and she'd wandered into a fucking _cult_.

Go figure.

_II_

They were okay, really.

Well.

Sometimes.

Nina's clothes didn't really fit her – apparently Nina was really tiny and cute or something – and anyway, she didn't have the heart to wear the clothes of a dead werewolf lady. She wore Tom's shorts for a week before Hal put his foot down, threw some money at her, and shoved her out the door towards the shops. Honestly, she didn't give a shit what she wore as long as it wasn't the Date Outfit.

They kind of… burned that, out in the backyard. It took a while before she realized that she could totally just strip off those infernal clothes, finally, and just bloody walk around naked if she wanted to.

(She didn't, because Hal might have a heart attack.)

They built a nice big fire and threw in the dress, the jacket, the tights, the boots – she was probably going to regret that – and, thank _God_, the fucking bra of doom.

_Never again._

So she got new clothes that fit, and she was okay. Really, she was.

Mostly.

_III_

When she walked into the kitchen to see Tom sharpening a stake, like he'd forgotten or something, she kept quiet about it and didn't tell Hal.

_IV_

She used to dream about cool things like Jon Snow and Bruce Willis taking over the world together or her eating the last piece of pie before her dad got to it first.

She used to really like sleeping because when she dreamed she remembered her mum, before she became a stupid bitch who left.

(Maybe she still felt bitter.)

She used to really like sleeping because her mind told her stories about interesting things, not like her dad who sat around and made jokes and smoked a pack a day or her annoying brothers who ran around and fucked everything up so she'd always have to stay and make it better.

That shit was too mundane, and sometimes she'd go out really late or go to sleep really early to stop thinking about it. She knew she wasn't supposed to babysit her lousy family for her whole life, she knew she was supposed to go out and do stuff and never get married and never have kids, because then she'd turn into her mother and –

(The truth was she didn't care anymore about Ryan's misspelled tattoo or her dad's smoking or the mess. Her family might be insufferable but it was her _family_ and if there's one thing she's learned, it's that family is the most important bond you'll ever have. Or some bullshit like that.)

After she died, during the nights, she'd sit in Annie's armchair in Annie's room and think about things.

Nothing.

Everything.

All at once.

Her head ached from it.

And fuck, she wished she could close her eyes and dream about – well, about anything. Just so she'd stop remembering.

And she would try,

and she would try,

and nothing would come of it.

Once, she threw the armchair against the wall and expected it to break.

(It didn't.)

Hal and Tom woke up and came in and saw her glaring at the armchair and wisely didn't say a word.

She stopped going in that room.

She tried lying on the couch, lying across the bar, lying in the bathtub, lying on desks, lying on the guest beds.

And everything still seemed pretty shitty so she stopped messing around.

_V_

She discovered that Tom was totally into Bruce Willis. They had a Die Hard marathon and whenever Hal came in the room he turned his nose up at the "unsophisticated drivel" they were watching.

She noticed him lurking behind the bar for a suspiciously long while and realized that he was totally watching it and trying to be subtle.

_VI_

Sometimes she'd forget and try to do ghost things. Whenever this happened, for some reason she'd start crying like a crazy loon and crumple to the ground, and her knees would get banged up and that's totally _not _how it happens in the movies. She'd dig the heels of her palms into her eyes and try to shut up before Hal or Tom heard, but one of them always did, and they'd find her on the floor with mascara trailing from her eyes and sobs trailing from her throat.

Usually if Tom came first he'd take one look at her and assess the situation and yell, "Hal! Alex is doing a thing and I don't know what to do about it!" and then he'd pat her head awkwardly and shuffle off.

Hal would come in, sometimes with the marigolds, sometimes without, and he'd sigh and do that thing old men do when they gather the material of their pants at the thighs and pull up the cuffs and sit down. She doesn't really know why he does that, but he does it so she doesn't care.

"Alex, what –?"

"Shut up and tell me why I can't Rent-a-ghost anymore, you idiot!"

Then, if he was wearing the marigolds, he'd carefully pull them off (one finger at a time) and neatly fold them. And he'd lick his lips and cross his legs, and say, "Alex, you're not a ghost anymore."

(He was always very tactful.

She was not.)

She'd scream and swear and gesticulate and maybe throw some things and cry a little harder, but whatever her reaction, Hal responded the same way he always did. He'd take her hand and bring her downstairs, make her tea and order her to build up and take down his dominoes.

She pretended it didn't help, but it did.

Hal knew.

_VII_

She tried to sleep.

She did.

She tried to dream.

She did.

But she didn't like it.

"Hal, budge over, would you? God, you take up space."

Hal sat up, covered his body with the blanket. His hair was tousled and a yawn lay on his lips.

"Alex, what time is it?"

"Half two." He must have seen the look in her eye because his face grew serious and he glanced back down to his bed.

"I'm afraid it's rather – it's a small bed, not fit for two –"

"Do I look like I care right now?" he sighed and moved over to the edge. She bit her nail and climbed in and drew up the covers. Hal was lying stiffly on his back, unmoving.

An awkward silence fell between them.

"Would you… like to talk about it?" his fingers twitched near her leg.

A tear fell and hit his shoulder. "Um. Not really."

Then they were quiet, for a time, and she barely noticed when he twined their pinkie fingers together because she was almost asleep.

(When she woke up the curtains were pushing back the sunlight and somehow she'd ended up pressed against his side. He slept on.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes again.)

The next night, when she woke up, she screamed. Tom said she could come to his room if she needed company because his bed was bigger.

Hal shuffled in after a little while and climbed in too.

And she thought she might cry because she was there in the middle, between her two best mates, and she was pretty fucking sure everything was made right.

They all slept in Tom's bed for a few weeks until Allison came round again.

_VIII_

They were okay, really.

Until Hal had to start obsessively cleaning the house because he felt strange and didn't like it. Tom thought he might be relapsing and she knew it would kill Hal if he were right. So Hal kept doing what Leo told him to.

So whenever Hal put on the marigolds and brought out the big (cleaning) guns, she knew to walk away. She didn't know who the hell he'd been five hundred years ago, or fifty years ago, or five years ago. She just knew that he was Hal who sang old show tunes, and Hal who really liked cleaning and ninety-degree angles and straight lines, and Hal who didn't know how to talk to girls and went on dates in museums. She also knew that he was Hal who lied and tricked and cheated, and Hal who killed people and drank their blood like it was wine, and Hal who really didn't give a shit about anyone but himself.

The trouble was never differentiating between the two. The trouble was deciding which Hal was the real Hal.

She didn't think he'd kill people anymore, because he was nice Hal and also not-nice Hal at the same time, and they'd joined hands and become the same, and in the end he was just Hal.

Just Hal.

_Just Hal_ _just Hal just Hal just Hal just Hal._

She told him this one day when he was ferociously scrubbing the cabinets in the downstairs toilet and singing Gilbert & Sullivan with great gusto.

He took the time to remove his marigolds and then they made out against the door.

_IX_

There was one day when they were sitting on the couch together watching _Antiques Roadshow_, and her feet were across Tom's lap and Hal's arm was round her shoulders, and everything was just _nice_, and then she realized that she'd forgotten how she'd died.

Tom and Hal were betting on this old-ass compass thing when it hit her, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried _really hard _to remember,

But nothing happened.

So she got up and went to the attic.

Eve's crib was still there in the middle of the room, and the mobile of crosses still hung from the ceiling. The building blocks had been scattered around the room and the baby's nappies were strewn over the crib.

(They hadn't had the heart to move Eve's things when they came back from blowing up Stoker.)

And for some reason, seeing the sweet residue of that old life made her feel the nostalgia like a blunt knife; her heart felt very, very desolate and very, very full. It was like that one song on the radio that always makes you cry, except this time it was a baby who had died before her life had begun.

She didn't know she was crying until Hal wiped the tears off her face.

"I come bearing tea," he said quietly, and they mutually decided to sit down at the same time facing the crib.

The thing she liked most about Hal in that very second was that he never pushed.

(Usually the thing she hated most about Hal was that he never pushed.)

"How did I die?"

Hal choked on his tea.

"Is this a joke?"

She didn't reply, but kept looking at the space where Eve used to sleep. Babies, she'd discovered, did little else.

"I – are you comfortable with knowing?"

"Hal," she said, "I've fucking forgotten how I _died_. You don't think that's uncomfortable?"

"But – you're not actually dead anymore," he pointed out, taking a sip of his tea to hide his discomfort. "Do you really need to know?"

"Look, Hal, you're not fooling yourself and you sure as hell are not fooling me. That was a really pathetic try. Totally not up to your usual standards."

"Okay." He dragged his finger through the dust on the floorboards. "You know, I really should bring the hoover up here –"

"_Hal_!"

"Really Alex, I don't know what's come over you –"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Hal, why don't you want to tell me?"

"Because I killed you, Alex, that's why!"

They were both breathing hard in the wake of the revelation. Her face was curiously blank and his was anguished and fervent and wide-eyed and broken.

"What?"

She was so quiet she thought he might not have heard her speak.

"I – not directly. I wasn't involved… like that." He paused as if to continue. "We'd gone on a date, and you had left… Cutler – Nick Cutler, a vampire – must have known we were seeing each other, and he must have followed you…" he darted a quick glance at her face to gauge her reaction.

"And then what?" she was entranced. She tried to conjure a memory in her head, but it was as if it were happening to someone else; like when she read books, she was just a third party, looking in on the story but never engaging. She saw herself being followed to an alley by a thin weedy-looking guy who was pretending to surf Twitter on his phone.

"I – he never told me how it happened. All I know is that he duped me into drinking your blood (after it had been drained from your body) and then showed me your – your –"

"My corpse," she filled in, tapping her nails against the floor. "I still don't see how _you_ killed me, though." He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and set down his tea so hard it sloshed over the sides of the mug.

"Because if it were not for me, you would be in Scotland right now with your family after having had a safe vacation, not here in a shithole B&B with a vampire and a werewolf."

"Well, actually, you're not a vampire anymore and Tom's not a werewolf –"

"That's not the point! The point is that I allowed myself to – to become involved with you, which led to your death. Alex, you don't understand how that affected me, especially after so many years of being clean and as untarnished as I could try to be. I killed again that night, even if it was indirectly."

"I see," she said, her mouth hardening, "it's not really about my death, is it? It's about you. Of course, it's always bloody got to be about you."

"Alex – what?"

"Come on, Hal, you're not upset about my death, you're upset about the consequences it had on you and your perfect little universe. I get it."

"Jesus, Alex, is that what you really think?" he tried to lock their gazes but she was looking away. The tea in her mug made little _plunk_ noises as the tears fell. "Do you not think I feel the guilt every day, sharp and clear as a knife? Do you not think that I realize that if it weren't for me you'd have a normal life right now? God, I hate myself even more every day because of what happened to you. Because of _my_ goddamn transgressions, the mistakes made before you were even born. I had no right to – to _infect_ you with my presence."

Her tears ran faster and her face turned fond.

"Shut up, arsehole. Now you're being all defeatist and gloomy and I'm supposed to be upset about my death, but now you're just making me feel bad for you."

"Don't. I deserve your hatred and nothing else."

"Oh my god, Hal, you make me want to pinch your cheeks and hug you and stuff." He looked mildly terrified so she added, "Which is totally not my thing so I won't. But, really. I know you blame yourself, but the thing is, if I hadn't come on to you, I _would_ have gone back to Scotland and been normal.

"But don't you get it? _I don't want normal._ My whole life, I was ready to go have this grand adventure and grow up by myself and shit. Yeah, so I was a ghost for a while, but I also had you and Tom, and we got to kick the Devil's ass – and really, who gets to say that? I miss my family, it hurts like hell, I won't lie, but the truth is, Hal – _you're_ my family now. You and Tom. Normality is so overrated anyway."

Hal had that look about him, the one where his eyes were glassy and sort of red and his lips were twitching, as if they were holding back some kind of outburst, and he was just _looking at her_ with that face and she didn't think she could last very long under that gaze.

So she got up and left.

He stayed sitting in the attic alone with two cups of cold tea and an empty crib.

_X_

Sometimes she would wander aimlessly around the house looking for things to do and would happen upon Hal staring intently into a mirror. She knew it wasn't vanity and it frankly made her stomach twist with melancholy and she'd watch him for a bit, and then she'd keep going.

_XI_

After the first few weeks it started to get easier to go to bed alone. She still left all the lights on and turned the radio to a classical channel and would lie on her back and focus on relaxing her muscles one-by-one. When she did fall to sleep, she was haunted by emaciated skeletons grinning dreadfully with a morbid sense that accompanies death and that settles on your shoulders and seeps through your eyes and ears and nose and fills you up and makes you want to claw out of yourself –

Usually that was when she'd wake up.

(Sometimes she wouldn't, and when she didn't, she would dream about the Devil's eyes and Hal dying and Tom dying and sometimes even her mother coming back, but as a jaundiced corpse.

She never told this to Hal.)

Her first instinct would be to Rent-a-ghost straight to Hal's bed, but then she'd get a second shock and remember that she _couldn't_ anymore, and then she would be twice as upset and almost run to Hal's room. Sometimes he was really deeply asleep, so she'd just climb in and fold herself around him. When he wasn't – he might ask her about her nightmares (she wouldn't ever describe them to him in detail) or he might try to engage her in meaningless conversation to distract her (it never worked but she appreciated the effort).

Some nights it was easier to fall back asleep and some nights she would continue to wake,

and sometimes she would scream,

and sometimes she would cry,

But always he'd be there.

And she'd close up the heart-hole in her chest and carry on.

_XII_

They were okay, really.

Except for when they weren't.

Like when she could feel herself fading.

She wasn't becoming incorporeal or anything but she knew it was happening.

There were the times when she forgot important things, like what her brothers' names were or Hal's favourite type of hand soap.

There were the times when she forgot trivial things, like the name for the hoover or that she was supposed to meet Tom and Hal after work at the pub.

There were the times when she forgot she was human and would try to summon objects or push them away and it wouldn't work. And she would get frustrated and Tom would send Hal in and he would make everything better.

Except,

There were the times when he couldn't make everything better.

And those times sucked, and they _really _sucked and nothing would change for a while.

But then she'd forget all about that and go back to normal.

_XIII_

She never made the mistake of telling Hal that his murderous rampages weren't his fault. She never made the mistake of saying, "It's okay Hal, that wasn't really you, and anyway, it's in the past now. You're normal and it's all that counts." She knew that it was a bullshit thing to say and Hal would get angry at that and start cleaning behind the fridge or something. Hal really did hate himself with spectacular desperation; it hurt a bit to think about it, so usually she wouldn't. When he got really morbid and really deep into the self-loathing she'd bring chocolate and eat it while he did press-ups.

Apparently he was against eating chocolate before or after _or during _working out.

What she would say, however, was that he was fully accountable for everything he'd done because he'd done it in his right mind, and she knew it still haunted him at night (he had nightmares, and sometimes they were worse than hers), _but_, he was trying to become a better person and she forgave him.

It would either make him withdraw more into himself (in which case she would finish her chocolate and leave) or it would make him stare at her – like she was a bloody angel or something – and kiss her (and she was _so _okay with that, even though she knew the salt she tasted wasn't from his sweat).

Once, a statement like that, from her lips to his ears, might have been a lie.

Not anymore.

Not anymore.

_XIV_

"You know you're going to need to get a job at some point, Alex?"

They were all three of them having breakfast in front of the television set when Hal brought it up. She was wearing Tom's shorts again because it was Sunday morning and Hal only let her wear them once a week.

(Actually his exact words were: "Those things are such an eyesore that I cannot _possibly_ have them in my line of sight (and therefore cluttering up my surroundings) for more than – more than a few hours at most."

She decided to take it quite literally.)

"Aren't you the Manager of a posh hotel, dearie?" she said, swinging her spoon in the air and almost clipping Tom on the ear.

"Yes, if you could call the Barry Grand _posh_," he grumbled, removing the spoon from her grasp and bending to collect the dishes.

"Well, I do," she said decisively, "Which means you have enough income to pay for this house, along with what Tom earns as 'Ass Man'."

"It was _one time_!" Tom exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Hal fixed it for me later. Stop bringing it up Alex please, it hurts me feelings."

She patted his shoulder conspiringly and went to follow Hal into the kitchen.

"Look, it's only been a few months since – well, you know," she said, "I'm only just getting used to being seen by people! And anyway, I need to come to terms with the fact that I can't do graffiti anymore 'cause now I can get caught."

Hal looked mortified. "Alex!"

"Kidding, god, Hal, calm your tits." She went over and coaxed the dirty dishes from his hands and turned the water on. "I mean, a fulfilling career would be nice, but, I just… I want to – I _need_ to – get used to this first. Get used to being normal again."

She must have sounded depressed or something because he looked at her fondly and said, "Alex, none of us will ever be normal again. Don't worry."

And before she could catch him at it, he leaned in and kissed her.

He was gone just as suddenly, the kitchen door left swinging in the wake of his departure and her lips tingling in the wake of his affection.

She left the water running and expected the lights to flicker or a mug to shatter or something, but nothing happened, except she swore her heart was beating faster than ever before.

_XV_

There were those days when she was feeling really shitty and dramatic and girly and she'd go up to the attic and listen to Mumford & Sons really loud, and do that thing in the movies where you lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling all pensively.

She realized that it got boring really fast.

When it was Tom's day off he went up and threw himself down beside her and told her he liked the music she was listening to.

So she made him a mixtape and he _never_ stopped listening to it.

Tom never complained about work, so he'd go on enthusiastically about every minute of his day, and back when she was Alex and not _Tom and Hal and Alex _she would have got annoyed at him, but now she was pretty okay with it. And she liked Tom; he wasn't blinded by social prejudices like most people, probably 'cause he was literally raised by wolves, and he just had this naïve sweetness about him (but she'd never tell him he was sweet, he'd get all awkward and go turn on the tele or something) and really, they were best mates.

_XVI_

Sometimes she'd forget that she could eat. Hal usually made dinner and he'd put a serving in front of her and she'd ignore it until he would pause and say, "What's wrong? Aren't you hungry?" and she'd glance down at her full plate and her cheeks would redden and she would feel stupid.

"Sorry – er, I was in my own world for a sec."

But Hal would always look at her meaningfully like he knew what she was about. Later, she would insist on doing the washing up and Hal would press the marigolds into her hands and Tom would pat her on the back after a pointed glance from Hal. They always did stick around to make her feel better; and she felt like she was the only one being taken care of.

'Cause they were always taking care of her but she never seemed to be taking care of them.

She felt really affected by her own humanity and no shit, that kinda scared her.

Like, every day she woke up and sometimes she was alone but sometimes she was in Hal's bed, but it just so happened that every day when she woke up she felt scared that she might die again, and she would be without her boys, and the awareness of the possibility was sharp and acute and it winded her when she thought about it.

She felt kind of awkward calling them her boys, like they were some kind of lame backup singers or something.

But what else were they really, what else other than _hers_?

She'd think about how Tom always held doors open for her and how polite he always was, but when there was food he'd just tear into it and wouldn't surface until every crumb had been cleaned off the plate. And how he got so into Antiques Roadshow and he'd be really competitive about his betting against Hal, and actually he usually won.

She would try not to think about Hal too often, because when she did, she felt funny inside and had the stupid urge to wrap her fingers around his and never let go because she was mortal,

and he was mortal,

and nothing lasts forever,

especially not life,

and she was afraid of dying now that she knew what lay _beyond_ life.

And that was bleakness because everything that wasn't Tom and Hal was bleak, she knew this, so she didn't want to die because it wouldn't be Tom and Hal waiting for her on the other side.

And she knew this time, she wouldn't come back.

And how this fitted in with her plan to grow up and explore the world, she didn't know, but she'd make it work because she'd give up everything for them.

Well.

She already had, hadn't she?

_XVII_

She used to love thrillers. Her life was so boring and shit, and thrillers were the opposite of boring. She would read them all the time, and her dad liked them too so they talked about it, and it was something good for them to talk about.

(Her dad had trouble communicating after her mum left.)

She discovered that Tom really liked thrillers and they were easy for him to read, and when she'd been a ghost, she would have gone to the library to 'pick up' a few for him but now she wasn't, and she couldn't because nothing was ever that easy anymore.

(It really wasn't.)

So she had to get a library card registered for Tom, who looked like he didn't know what to do with it (he had probably never seen one in his life) and she walked him through it and he came home with a stack of books that Hal dismissed as being "action fodder for the weak-minded."

When she asked Hal what his kind of literature was, he was totally predictable in answering with, "Only the classics, Alex. Isn't it obvious?"

Later that night she found a well-read Dostoevsky placed neatly on her bedside table.

_XVIII_

She liked to interrupt Hal when he listened to Radio Four. Usually she'd change the station and would start singing along to whatever song was playing. If she didn't know it, she made up her own lyrics. If she did know it, usually she'd fuck up the lyrics anyway, and God knew she didn't care much what came out of her mouth.

Once she messed up 'Time Warp' and she thought Hal would need to sit down and take deep breaths because he looked so appalled at her nerve or something.

"How does one just sing the wrong lyrics for Time Warp? _How_?"

"Relax, Frank N Furter, it's just a song," she said, putting her hands on her hips and bringing her knees in tight. He continued to look flabbergasted though, so she grabbed his hand and made him dance with her.

When Tom came in she taught him the dance and they had one of those silly movie moments that just looks _so_ fake when everyone is harmonious and pure happy and giggling and doing ridiculous dance moves and stuff.

But shit, did it feel good.

_XIX_

She didn't really touch the piano anymore.

_XX_

It was one of those days when she felt nostalgic. The emptiness burrowed into her heart and seeped into her bones and made her feel _tired_. She never used to feel this way; probably because there was nothing to feel nostalgic about in her old life, 'cause everything was the same day in and day out and during the nights, she was alone with her brothers sleeping down the hall and her dad sleeping on the couch in front of the tele with his arm triangulated awkwardly behind his head.

But not anymore.

No, not anymore.

Now the nostalgia pierced her throat and coated her lashes and dug under her fingernails, so deep she couldn't shake it off. Maybe 'cause everything had become so unpredictable she was in want for the predictable.

Well, didn't she have that now? Now that she was stuck being human.

(human.)

Tom and Hal would go to work, and she would wake up late and stumble downstairs for a cup of tea – Hal would leave the kettle on with a note addressed to her – and she'd watch some sitcoms for a bit, and maybe take a walk or go to the beach. And she'd get home before the boys were off work so she'd start making dinner, but then Tom would come in and compel her to go watch _more_ television while he did the cooking (he was really getting quite good at it). Hal would be reading but he'd sneak glances at whatever show was on overtop the book or the paper he was immersed in, or when he wasn't feeling what she called 'booky-intellectual' he'd kick her ass at chess.

And during the evening they'd hang out and do whatever.

That was predictable, right? And didn't she want (need) it?

So why the _hell_ was she missing having to strap Hal into a chair (cursing and spitting and "fuck you, bitch!"), missing Tom's scars (they used to stand in sharp pink relief against his buzzed brown hair), missing the thrill of mystery and even devilry ("I'm only the fucking devil, sweetheart.")?

Because, her mind tells her (only when she's alone), then, you knew who you were and where you stood.

Where did she stand now, now when she wasn't a third of a supernatural trinity?

Because even now, Tom was Tom and Hal was Hal but she was… well, she still hadn't quite figured that out yet.

(But was that really so bad?)

_XXI_

Hal came in the kitchen brandishing a flyer. "There's a new exhibit at the museum – ancient Peruvian art. Like, Incas," he clarified, as Tom looked confused. "Well? Who's in? Tom, why don't you ring Allison – she'll be interested for sure."

Tom perked up immediately and Alex sighed and knew she'd be resigned to go.

_"Ooh, Tom, come look at this ritual knife! See the definite semi-circular blade. The Inca used this during ritual sacrifices to the gods!" Tom and Allison enjoyed the exhibit._

_Hal had caught her hand and was rubbing his thumb against hers and he hadn't let go. _

She looked at the lipstick stain on her cup with disinterest. The exhibit was everything she thought it would be: boring as hell.

Except for the masturbation statues. Those had been interesting (unsettling).

They'd found the tea shop and had pushed two tables together and now they were sitting. Tom and Allison were crowded at the end, immersed in a picture book they'd bought in the boutique – it cost fifteen quid, total bollocks – and Hal was reading the paper.

Alex was trying her best not to cry.

'Cause she remembered the last time she was at this museum –

(and she hadn't made it to the tea shop)

– and wasn't she so stupid back then, not to notice that Hal was dangerous? As if she could forget that afternoon, as if every fucking moment wasn't burned into her retinas for those fleeting corner of time when she closed her eyes or remembered too far in the past.

Apparently she was staring at the pink bow-shape of her imprinted lips because she felt Hal's hand come to rest on her knee.

"Alex?" he spoke quietly thank God because if Allison and Tom knew she was silently screaming she didn't know what she would do.

"Fine, I'm – fine." Her eyelids squeezed shut and her pulse somersaulted and her nails rhythmically made noises _taptaptap _on the Formica tabletop –

"I'm so sorry," Hal whispered, and the sound was amplified and she watched his upper lip twitch and _Jesus Christ_ his eyelashes were long. "I've been so insensitive."

"Shut up," she hissed, a bit too loud, 'cause Tom and Allison briefly looked up before going back to geometrically-painted water jugs. "Nothing's wrong."

And she threw the cup with her painted lips on the ground, and then she left.

_XXII_

She used to really want to travel. Foreign places, exotic places, like Machu Picchu, or Dubai, or Hawaii or even Nice.

When she was alive she would drift. She liked the caravan because it kept moving. The house just sat.

(Her mum would call that sedentary.)

When she was dead she would drift. Like she was a balloon and she was tethered to the ground but the rope was wearing thin and the wind was gathering strength. Annie had told her that she would be anchored to Honolulu Heights, to Hal and to Tom. Until the end of everything or until everything ended.

And as much as she'd wanted to travel, to foreign places, exotic places, like Machu Picchu, or Dubai, or Hawaii or even Nice,

she is irrevocably bound to the house and to Tom and to Hal.

_XXIII_

It was a random afternoon when she paused in the middle of the street (Hal would _flip_ if she died again) because it had been months and weeks and days and hours since that day, and really, time had a bastard way of feigning slowness but when you looked back it wasn't slow at all, but fastfastfast.

(tricky.)

_XXIV_

The first time they fucked, Tom was downstairs cleaning the dishes and Allison was reading Chaucer at the bar and they were lying on Hal's bed and all the lights were on and the radio was playing 'Time Warp'. It was slow and fast and hot and cold and her eyes were closed but she was staring into him all the same. His tongue tasted like the herbal tea he'd tried (it was Annie's favourite) and he'd given her _that_ look and she felt smouldered and they'd practically raced each other up to his room.

His hand was up her shirt before the door had even slammed shut.

And there, lying on the creaking bed fit for one with granny sheets and a flowery bedpost with all the lights on and 'Time Warp' on the radio and his mouth pressed to her throat –

(she knew it wasn't the bloodlust; he was counting her pulse,

because now she had a pulse.)

– it was like some line had been irrefutable crossed because now instead of Alex and Hal it was Alex-and-Hal and holy shit, she was really really okay with that.

And when he slowly folded into her she felt as complete as a twice-living dead girl ever could.

And his hips moved and his breath came faster and he locked their gazes and his fingers drifted everywhere, along her ribcage and over the column of her neck and into her hair and he tickled her behind her knees (and she laughed jarringly breathlessly hopelessly); and her hips moved and her breath came faster and she laced her fingers through the curls of his hair and licked behind his teeth and clutched at his biceps and –

Suddenly it didn't matter that they were fucking for the first time in a severely unromantic location;

suddenly it only mattered that he was her and she was him and they were them and it was **perfect**.

_XXV_

She had never seen herself as the marriage type.

Luckily Hal had never seen himself as the marriage type either.

_XXVI_

She'd given up the pretence of sleeping in her own bed. For God's sake, she woke up every night because Hatch and gravestones and Rook and werewolves and museums and pleather jackets and the end (beginning) of the world.

She used to think she was brave enough to last the night alone but when her eyes were shut she saw up-close her own rotting skull and knew that she couldn't sleep without Hal's pinkie twisted round her own and his soft exhales tousling her hair. And yeah, it kinda made her die a little inside that she'd grown so depended on his presence, but she was lying if she couldn't admit to herself that they'd both end up in the same bed by the end of the night.

So she'd given up the ghost, so to speak and convinced Hal to invest in a bigger bed.

(When Hal got it set up Tom made as if he was blind to its purpose.)

And during the night he was wrapped round her so tightly she thought she might crumble at the force of it.

_XXVII_

Sometimes she was suddenly hit with loving him,

Like when he kissed her bottom lip,

Or when he smoothed his thumb over her nipple,

Or when he was doing press-ups and the muscles of his back moved,

**Or when they made love.**

_XXVIII_

They were okay, really.

and they were.

* * *

for Nicole,

and for the fandom.

please note: the details about the Peruvian art exhibit are _not_ false and/or the product of artistic license.


	2. now how i long how i long to grow old

_I_

It had been Tom's idea to utilize the mantelshelf as a shrine. Tom had known all of them personally and had tears in his eyes when he came down from the attic holding a plethora of old memories – a sonogram, some chipped mugs (his old heart twisted because the pain of losing Annie was still too sharp), a star of David. And out of his pocket Tom had pulled one of McNair's carvings and with shaking fingers had shoved it up there, too.

The mantelshelf was getting horribly dusty, what with all the clutter on it now – when he was alone one day he put up the note with Alex's name and number and hoped she and Tom wouldn't comment on it. Now he desperately wanted to take everything down and give it a good clean. But Tom would be upset and Alex would scratch the back of her head and say nothing but secretly side with Tom. So he tried not to think about the dirt.

But there were those days when as he walked past he stopped to look at the little rememberings, the sacred mementos of past lives and past people. And he didn't believe in monotheistic religion or even polytheistic religion because they suggested that there were gods… and he knew that there were only evils in the world, no gods, because if there were then why was there a paper wolf on the shelf?

He paid his respects in thoughts and moved on.

(Because what else was there to do?)

_II_

He could easily recall every single livid moment of his life. He could organize five hundred years' worth of memories into categories:

_before_

_after _

_everything in-between_

He could remember all the women and all the men and all the children and all the lonely people who begged and pleaded and cried and _oh, God – _

They always said that.

_Oh, God_!

Well, God never seemed to be listening, did he?

So he would chuckle darkly and grin and watch as the hope fled from their eyes and he would trace the skin of their necks and guide his teeth through the soft flesh.

There was always that resistance, at first. Before teeth pierced skin and blood ran hot and wet and fast and dark.

There was always that resistance, at first. A little bit like the human spirit. They would fight and struggle and claw at his arms and face.

But then they would stop.

It would take them twenty-two seconds to give in.

He'd had five hundred years to discover this.

_III_

Sometimes he would watch her as she moved from couch to bar to counter to table to couch. Sans her big, clunky boots she had a sort of awkward gait that made her seem as if she were not familiar with her height and the length of her limbs. Her posture was often horrendous, how _did_ she slouch like that, and she always walked around the house barefoot. However, he couldn't help but notice that her slender, womanly figure was a perfect juxtaposition against the boyish angle of her hair and he dearly hoped she didn't catch him in the act of staring because he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

To be honest he'd done his fair share of staring even _before_ her death…

But now everything was different but still somehow the same; because so much had changed but they were now back to acting like nervous moths fluttering around the light but never engaging.

Shit. His similes needed work.

Alex had told him that she needed time to adjust. Time to set her affairs in order, time to come to terms with whatever the hell her life had become.

If he'd known, then, that _time_ stretched out on the horizon in flat increments and _time_ tried to convince him that minutes were actually hours and days were actually weeks, if he'd known, then, that his want for her was so deep it made him physically _ache_ from the crown of his skull to the soles of his feet…

Well, if he'd known, he probably would have swept her off her feet ages ago.

_IV_

Perhaps some details of his past life, some dredges of the old instincts, had remained in him as he passed from supernatural to human, because the day Allison drove up with some cardboard boxes in the trunk of her car he could vaguely smell _dog_, but it was more of a faded smell, like the backseat of a car in the sunlight. It was as if he could smell the unnatural residue accompanying her.

If Tom smelled it too, he never said. Tom's smile was so wide it threatened to split his face apart and, watching the two from the safety of the kitchen, his veins swelled with affection for the younger man. Alex put a hand on his shoulder and he swore that she felt it, too.

They spent the evening moving Allison in to her new room, and he brought down the old gramophone from the attic and put on Cole Porter, and nobody complained that his taste in music was outdated. He organized Allison's books the way she liked: alphabetically by publishing house, then by first letter of the author's surname.

Tom was in a fine mood that night and even tried his first sip of wine.

(He spat it back out when their backs were turned.)

_V_

In the days following the bustle of Allison's arrival, Alex noted that Tom hardly ever surfaced from his room anymore.

"Yes, and?" he asked, fixing a cup of tea at the counter. Alex leaned against the sink beside him.

"Well, dearie," she smirked, and his hand jerked with the sugar and he spilled too much in his tea, because he could imagine her calling him that un-ironically one day, one day when they were very old together, "isn't Allison sharing young Tom's room? You haven't seen her around much either, have you?"

This time his hand jerked with the milk and bugger, his tea was ruined.

"I haven't," he provided delicately, washing his mug in the sink. "I am sure they are – they are simply getting reacquainted with one another."

Alex smirked again and snorted and he realized what he'd said.

"Oh, bloody hell." So he threw his hands up in the air and stalked out of the room.

He could still hear the ghost of Alex's giggles in the kitchen behind him.

_VI_

The year was 1928 and London was sparkling.

He stood in the Ritz's best suite surrounded by the exsanguinated corpses of –

Well, shit. He didn't know who they were.

He wiped the blood from his moustache and smeared it on somebody's torn vest.

He needed a drink.

Down in the Ritz Club, at the bar, he was almost immediately accosted by two blondes wearing matching glittering gowns and matching glittering grins.

The monster in him growled with pleasure.

"Hiya, doll, can I buy you a drink?" the first one asked, leaning forward and baring her – assets.

"Only if you buy yourself one, too," he replied, eyeing her and the other woman with an insatiable hunger. He could smell, underneath the rancid perfume coating their necks, the fast-moving river of blood pouring through their veins. He could hear, underneath their sequined dresses, the excited _beatbeatbeat_ of their hearts as they pumped. He was this close to tasting it, this close to having the coppery wetness on his tongue and down his throat and warming up his insides – Christ, he had only fed twenty minutes ago, and he had almost forgotten how it tasted, its texture, its consistency. He was no longer sated. There was always more to be had.

He realized he had been staring a fracture of a second too long, and their grins were now pasted on their faces.

"Ladies," he said smoothly, lacing his fingers behind his back, "cards on the table, let's say we forget the drinks and go on up to my room. It's a helluva lot less crowded, you know, and there's plenty of champagne to be had."

In the corner, the band swung up a fast jazz tune. The atmosphere in the room suddenly transformed, and there was a sense of urgency and of insistence that had not been present before.

He heard their hearts jump and the urge grew.

"Why, that's ever so kind of you," the second one trilled, in a voice that grated at his nerves (she'd be the first to go), "and, cards on the table, I find that alcohol magnificently lowers inhibitors. Fortunately for me, I've had quite a lot of alcohol tonight." She daringly downed the vestiges in her champagne flute and set it delicately on the bar.

The other one said nothing but smiled more widely.

So, he gestured for them to follow him and he led the way out of the basement casino.

They strolled along the brightly lit corridor, his arms loosely around their waists, and they simpered and laughed and sang verses of popular songs played in the clubs. He was getting hungry now – his stomach clenched and his nerves were on edge and his fingers tightened and his toes curled.

The light glinted off his fangs and they faltered briefly –

But then they continued to sing gaily and the moment was lost.

How amusing, how endearing, that humans simply refused to acknowledge the supernatural, that they would prefer to be blind to the machinations of the midnight world, the underground microcosm of society, and pass off odd phenomena as quirks of nature.

He found that if he pressed the pads of his fingers deep enough into the flesh of their hips, he could feel the current of blood moving past.

No. No. It was too soon. He wanted to have some fun first.

They reached the suite and he retracted his hands from their bodies. He was gratified to notice that they pouted slightly as he drew away from them.

"I'll only be a minute," he promised, clenching the doorknob in his fist, "I'd like to make it presentable for you."

He swung the door open as closely to the frame as possible and turned quickly to survey the room.

Entirely devoid of bodies. Not a bloodstain in sight.

Perfect.

He had to hand it to Fergus; that man moved quickly.

In the gilded mirror, he tousled his hair, straightened his vest, and shook out his best charming smile.

"Come in," he swung the door open and invited them inside, and his monster growled at the marvelled expressions on their faces.

He slid a Satchmo record onto the gramophone and the two girls squealed.

"Wherever did you come by that record?"

"I lived in Chicago for some time," he replied, unbuttoning his coat. "I know Louis personally. He gave it to me as a gift." He watched as the blondes exchanged astonished glances and smirked, and sauntered over to them.

The first one toed off her shoes and ran her hands down her neck.

"Well, now," she purred, "I haven't the faintest notion why, but I seem to be feeling rather hot in this dress. Would you help me out of it?" she spun slowly, baring the dip of her spine in the low-backed flapper smock.

"It would be my pleasure," he intoned, his voice low and gravelly. He watched her tremble as he slowly pulled down the zip of her dress.

There was a dare in the curve of her spine, in the way her toes curled into the lush carpet, in the tilt of her head as the golden shingles of her hair caught the light just so –

Glass crunched beneath his boot as he surveyed the room. He flicked what might have been part of a trachea from his dinner jacket. Underneath, his shirt was stained red.

It was incredible how much he had to pay for dry cleaning these days.

He slid his tongue over his teeth and retracted the fangs. There was no more blood left in either of the girls – they were empty shells, now, one draped head-first over the balcony, one splayed across the bed.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Room service!" it was Fergus. "Bloody shit, man, you didn't leave any for me?" Fergus bent to run his fingers down the exposed breasts of the first one. "Nice job. I think I can see her spine."

"Get this cleaned up, would you?" he licked his still-bloody fingers. "I want to be out by the morning. Big plans in France; you know how it is."

Fergus straightened. "Come on, Harry, stay awhile! It's the fucking Ritz! Ten quid says you haven't even made it down to the casino."

He rolled his eyes and went to remove the record from the gramophone. "Actually that was where I met these two lovely ladies." Fergus whistled.

"You couldn't have recruited them?" he said wistfully, fisting the yellow hair of the first one to observe what was left of the face. "Looks like mighty good – uh – bone structure. Yeah." Fergus caught his gaze. "Oh, piss off."

"What can I say?" he adjusted the cufflinks on his jacket. "I was hungry."

He awoke screaming and gasping air into dead lungs.

There was the sound of heavy footfalls and the flick of the hall light being turned on.

His door swung open. "Hal! What happened?" Tom tumbled in and his hand drifted behind to his back pocket on instinct, reaching for a stake that hadn't been present for months.

"Nightmare," he replied, gathering the bedcovers to his chest and shivering. Alex appeared in the doorway with hair mussed and eyelids heavy. This must have been the first night she'd been able to sleep without dreaming, and he felt instantly guilty.

"You okay?" she yawned, and shook back the cuffs of her sweater – she'd bought it three sizes too large on purpose, something he marvelled at – and scratched her head.

"He had a nightmare," Tom filled in helpfully, throwing himself ungracefully onto the sofa.

"What about?" she joined Tom in interest.

"Nothing that concerns you," he snapped, too quickly and with too much bite. Alex recoiled. "Sorry. I'm just on edge. It was… a past experience – unpleasant to relive, and something I wouldn't wish you to hear."

Tom wrinkled his nose. "What, was it torture or something?"

"I was not the recipient," he hedged carefully, trying not to disclose anything. "Really, I'm fine. It'll pass."

"Hal, you're bloody shaking," Alex pointed out, drawing her knees to her chest. God, she looked lovely with the moonlight reflecting off her cheekbones. "You don't seem fine to me."

"What do you suppose I do?" he cried.

Tom pushed himself off the couch and patted his shoulder. "When you're ready, you can tell us."

He exhaled sharply and watched Tom stumble blearily back to his own room. Alex, however, stayed put.

"Are you killing someone?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"In the nightmare," she clarified impatiently, wandering over to sit beside him (her legs were bare and slender and long), "Are you killing someone?"

He stared at the floor and half-heartedly wished it would swallow him up. "I – yes." There was no point in lying. Alex was incredibly astute.

"Oh," she swallowed thickly. And traced her finger along the seam of the bedcovers. "Erm – how many?"

He swallowed. His throat was dry. It felt like sandpaper.

"More than five but less than twelve," he whispered. Fucking hell, he couldn't even remember their names. He hadn't bothered to learn them before he stopped their hearts and ripped open their jugulars. Alex gathered the sheets in her hands and clenched, hard, the skin of her hands whitening.

"When?"

"October 1928."

"Where?"

"The Ritz. Suite 88."

"And… who were they?"

A pregnant pause.

"I… don't know. I don't know."

He was overcome and that was when the tears came.

At this, she moved to gather him in her arms.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you not pushing me away, condemning me as you should be?"

She hiccupped a laugh and he realized that she was crying, too. "Because I still want to believe in you. Because… because I think about who you were then and who you are now and I do my best to imagine you as you, and not then-you and now-you. Shit, I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

"It's okay," he said, "I get it."

She wept harder and he shifted, mirroring her earlier pose with her head on his chest now.

"I can hear your heart beating," she whispered. "Can you stay with me tonight?"

And his old tattered broken heart began to beat again.

_VII_

It was Christmas Day and they were lounging across the couch eating turkey with stuffing and watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.

"Blooming _hell_," Alex suddenly announced, smack in the middle of the episode, "all I want to do with my life is eat food professionally and watch tele all day. And blog about it."

Tom laughed and Alex laughed and he laughed, and the house was filled with the sound of happiness, and snow drifted outside in the cold but it was okay because they were inside where it was warm. Inside where it was a good place, a safe place, an incorruptible place where a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost used to live.

What was left of them was a sticky residue in the air, a memory, but it wasn't present right now. Not now that they had found an order to the chaos, a light to contradict the dark.

He realized that he was assembling prose in his head (he hadn't done that for centuries) and decided to stop.

Easy as that.

_VIII_

It was Tuesday and they'd just come from the cinema. The breeze pushed along the warm air and the smell of salt drifted in from the beach. Tom was working late, taking extra shifts because Allison was at school and when Allison was at school, Tom was lost.

Alex's fingers were wound tightly around his and the first word to come to mind was _blissful_.

"So," she began, drawing out the 'o', and he watched her lips move, "that was a pretty shit film. Why'd you drag me all the way to see it? You very obviously hated it." But she smiled teasingly, and he knew she wasn't upset.

"I didn't hate it!" at her disbelieving glance, he deflated. "Alright, no, I didn't find it very engaging. But I thought you would enjoy it."

She smiled, gratified. "You're too good to me."

He was about to contradict her when he heard the familiar strains of a waltz wandering along on the wind. Spinning around, he located the source of the music: it was coming from what appeared to be a rather nondescript brick building down the road. The doors had been thrown open, and music and light and laughter spilled out, along with the concise, periodic _taptaptap_ of the dancers.

"Come with me."

Grasping her hand tighter, he led her to the building and peeked inside. There was a wide open room, well lit, and seven couples twirled around each other while an elderly man pranced about from couple to couple, correcting posture and providing advice. Along opposite walls hung floor-to-ceiling mirrors which reflected the dancers and made the room seem as if it were infinite; and suddenly the small space was filled with a ballroom full of dancers, swaying and dipping and twirling and it might have been one of the most mesmerizing things he'd ever seen, if Alex hadn't been standing beside him.

The elderly man had apparently noticed them; he made his way over, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and beside him Alex stifled a laugh.

"Come in! Come dance!" the man beckoned them inside. He grinned eagerly. "Please, dance!" his English was rudimentary and basic – not a local, then.

He hesitated. "We wouldn't want to interrupt –"

"No, no interrupt! Just dance." The man had a gleam in his eye – the mischievous sort of gleam that he hadn't seen for a long while.

His mind was already made up.

Really, it had been made up when he first heard the echoes of the music.

He stepped in the room, and the dancers immediately accommodated his presence.

Alex looked to him nervously. "Hal – I'm not sure about this –"

"Lady first!" the man approached her and grasped her waist. She sunk her teeth into her lip and tried to take a step back, but the man was firm and his eyes were gentle. "Hand, please."

He met her eye over the man's head and he shot her a reassuring look.

"And… step. And step. And step. Good! You're a natural. Step. And step. No – other direction. Yes." Alex couldn't help but giggle at the dancer's earnestness, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed and the tension seeped out of her frame. She became Alex – playful and quick-witted. Sometimes she stumbled, but the old man was jolly and was tactful enough not to wince when she was looking to him.

She really was a fast learner.

Soon she was twirling and laughing and smiling so widely he thought it must be painful – she smiled as if she were unable to frown, unable to twist her mouth anywhere but upwards.

"May I cut in?" the elderly man gracefully acquiesced and went back to his students, bouncing all the while.

He pulled her close to his chest, closer than the other man had.

The atmosphere changed.

Curtains opened, lighting was cast, and they were on the stage.

It felt intimate, almost secret, and in a puff of smoke the whole room vanished and it was only them, reflected a million times in the mirrors, stepping and spinning and drawing away from each other only to be pulled close again, magnetically, lyrically. He watched her as they danced. Her eyes were on her feet and she counted under her breath. Sometimes she would dart a glance up at his face, and she would grin impishly and her tongue would poke between her teeth and God, if they were anywhere else, he would take her right now.

The room was full again and they were no longer alone.

Curtains were drawn, the lighting shut off, and the performance ended.

The song had stopped and the crowd was dispersing, but they remained twined in each other.

_IX_

He was drinking tea in the kitchen when Tom bounded through the doors, dressed in his hotel uniform with a wrinkled vest underneath.

"Woke up late," Tom explained and threw bread and condiments together, "Didn't have time for ironing." He paused and stared. "Where's your uniform? Hurry up!"

He shook his head and set down his tea. "It's my day off today."

Tom continued to gawk. "But you never take days off. And you don't look sick, mate."

"It's a personal matter, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Tom's face fell and he awkwardly turned back to his sandwich.

He realized he must have said something wrong. Rinsing his mug in the sink, he shot a glance over at Tom. "Where is Allison?"

Tom sniffed. "At school." His gaze fixed determinedly on the neighbour's rhododendrons.

He pursed his lips and nodded, and left the room.

Later, Alex poked her head inside the main bath as he cleaned the shower. "Why was Tom all depressed? Did you say something Hal-ish?"

He spluttered indignantly. "That doesn't make any sense." He set down the sponge and removed the marigolds. Stepping out of the shower, he joined Alex in the hall, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I… might have insinuated that he was ignorant."

She hit him with a dishcloth. "Arse! You know he never went to school!"

"Ow!" he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I knew he wasn't familiar with ancient history, and I said so, just… in fewer words."

She slapped him again. "That is _such _a Hal thing to say. Not everyone is illiterate you know, some people are aware that you are a mad bugger who takes days off because you're afraid of being stabbed in the back _twenty-four times_ by your best mates."

He almost fell over in shock. Alex grinned and looked pleased with herself.

"I read Julius Caesar in school, I'm not dumb. Today's the Isles of March or whatever bullshit."

"Ides of March," he corrected, "And it's not bullshit. The soothsayer clearly warned him –"

"Oh, shut up, Hal!" she dropped her chin to her palm and stared at him. "You're not the leader of a nation, there is no mad old man shouting bollocks at you (at least, not anymore), and I'm pretty sure everyone who wants to kill you is already dead."

"Until you put that dishcloth away, I'm not convinced," he joked.

_X_

It was a Monday and Tom was at work and Allison was at school and he was walking downstairs when he heard it.

A sort of sizzling noise and a sharp intake of breath. "_Fuck_."

Then a squeaking noise and a rush of water.

The sounds came from within the kitchen and, curious, he went to look through the window.

Alex was holding her hand under the spray of the tap, wincing and rubbing her lips together the way she did when she was trying not to cry. She swore some more under her breath, and turned off the water and dried off her hand. She turned to the cook-top and regarded it with what seemed to be a rather high level of distrust.

He watched as her gaze flicked from her hand – red and chapped-looking – back to the cook-top.

A moment later he burst into the room and wrenched Alex away from the burner.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he was vaguely surprised at how furious he sounded and realized he was shaking angrily.

She tried to adopt a politely confused expression except he could see the tear tracks on her face and she was shaking, too and her hand was red and blistering.

"I – don't know what you mean." Her lips trembled and failed to form a smile. "I was just about to make some tea –"

"Don't lie to me!" his fingers curled round her arms and he shook her. "I saw what you were doing."

Her eyes betrayed her; fresh tears welled up in them and dropped to her cheeks and she would not look to him. Her tears splashed over her hand and she gasped, in spite of herself.

He forgot about his anger when he took in the state of her. Her palm was raw and shiny and blood swam to the surface. "Fucking hell, Alex," he muttered. "What have you done?"

A sob escaped her lips, unbidden. "Really Hal, I don't know – I was just making tea, honestly, I was, and then by mistake I put my hand on the cook-top and it was hot and –"

"Shh, come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Hal – really – I didn't do it on purpose –" he ran the water and thrust her palm to the sink. She whimpered again and he tried his best not to feel any sympathy.

(It didn't work.)

"I saw what you did," he said quietly, turning away and crossing his arms, "you put your hand back there, and you knew it was hot but you still did it."

She was biting through her lip in an effort not to cry out in pain. "I know – I can explain –"

"I don't think I really want to know."

"Look – you know when you're a ghost you're incorporeal, and – and nothing _feels_ right, 'cause you're not real and everything else is. Except you feel like you're real and everything isn't. And I had to go without _feel_ for so long, and now I'm alive again, and I'm just like everything now, like, I'm real and everything else is real and – I just – I _missed _having sensation and –"

She fell against the counter and slid down, collapsing heavily on the floor. Her wet hand was dripping all over her shirt and she was crying like she couldn't breathe, and her eyes were closed and it must have been one of the saddest things he'd ever seen.

"Bloody hell, Alex."

So he threw himself down beside her and she kind of caved into him, fisted her hands in his shirt –

(he didn't mind the wetness)

– and knocked their heads together.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." he sighed and clenched his fists and then smoothed them out again, and ran his fingers through her hair. "Jesus, Alex, I didn't know you felt that way."

"What way?"

"I don't know. Lost. I don't know."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, and sniffed. "I'm afraid of being without you."

"Yeah?" she nodded and curled herself closer. "Me, too."

They were silent for a time. Then, "I really am okay, you know. I'm not crazy. I think. I just wasn't thinking."

"I know."

"I'm not into self-harm or anything. I never did that shit. It didn't even feel good. It just fucking _hurt_."

"At least you'll know never to do it again."

"Want to have sex before Tom gets home?"

"Let's."

_XI_

Once they were watching some infomercial at eleven at night and he was thinking about going back upstairs until Alex stirred beside him.

"Where'd Tom go?" her voice was thick with sleep. He rubbed his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve.

"He's gone up to bed. Early day tomorrow."

She bit her lip like she was hiding a smile. "Good."

Then she leaned over and caught his bottom lip between her teeth.

(She'd found out that this made him growl and grasp her hips tighter.)

He reached over and pulled her atop his lap, smoothing his palm up her thigh and threading his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans. Her hands went to his face as she traced his jaw, his chin, and sank her fingers into his hair. She opened her mouth to him and they twined together and somehow he ended up pressing her into the couch and making his way down her neck.

She had his shirt unbuttoned and was pushing it off his shoulders when he paused.

"What was that for?"

"I wanted to, so I did."

"Ah."

And he went back to her mouth and learned her as deeply as possible.

_XII_

Sometimes he would still feel it. Like the vestiges of tea in the bottom of the mug that you can never quite swallow, he was never truly able to rid himself of the instincts he'd acquired over the centuries. That last day, so long ago, had marked the re-birth of his psyche and the death of the monster with whom he'd become so familiar. That last day had marked the beginning of a new life, a life free of hiding and free of nightmares and free of the judgments and deaths that plagued him wherever he went.

But he could still feel it. Deep down, buried underneath levels of consciousness. He'd never held much stock in psychology; when it had become a fashionable profession, he had scoffed and ignored the field entirely.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that he had already been changed at the time – and had been for a long while. The corruption of his madness had already begun to eat away at his mind, and fill his head with urges and aggressiveness and destruction and pure impulse.

He was familiar with Freud's work; he understood that the aspect of his personality he was still trying to bury was inaccessible and unforgiving and would never part from him.

And even as he was human, the vampire id, deep down, buried underneath levels of consciousness, thrived and schemed and would not let him forget the things he'd done.

Sometimes, at night, when she was sleeping, he would trace the curve of her throat with his eyes and, for a split second, imagine the sensation of tearing into it, opening the carotid artery and feasting on her trachea.

But then he would close his eyes and hate himself a little more and resign himself to the other side of the bed.

(She would always find her way to him in the night;

He woke every day with her arms round him and her legs tangled in his.)

_XIII_

He liked when he and Tom walked together after dinner. They did that sometimes; walked. It was simple.

He rather liked simple.

"I'm thinking of proposing to Allison," Tom said one evening. They had meandered into town and were passing the ice cream shop Alex always liked visiting when they were nearby (and even sometimes when they weren't.) They had been discussing the last episode of _Antiques Roadshow_, and how Tom had figuratively kicked his ass, and in the middle of a sentence, Tom mentioned his plans in a way that was quintessentially Tom: randomly, unexpectedly, and totally straight-faced.

"What? Tom! How wonderful." He clapped Tom on the back because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

Tom's grin outshone the streetlights.

"I think it's been long enough she's lived with us," Tom continued, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the ground. "Right? And she's done with school – at least, this semester. Plenty of time."

"Tom," he began carefully, "have you already – er – plucked your flower?"

"Yep!" Tom smiled more widely. "McNair said I should only pluck my precious flower if I found the one, and I know Allison's the one 'cause there's never been no one else."

"Do you think she'll say yes?"

"Sure hope so," Tom murmured, gazing wistfully across the road.

He seemed to be looking at a shop advertising infants' clothing.

He steered Tom away from the shop. "Not quite yet, Tom, not quite yet."

_XIV_

It was a Wednesday afternoon and Alex had just come in from work. He stepped over to greet her, but she pushed past, anxiously searching the front room.

"Has Allison gone yet? Has it happened?"

"No, she's in the kitchen." Alex yelped and almost ran over. He followed at a more sedate pace, hanging her coat up from where she'd dropped it in her haste.

"Aah!" her voice drifted over from the kitchen. "Look at you, pregnant lady!" Allison's laughter met his ears and he knew if Tom had been there his laugh would have been the loudest of them all. "How are you feeling? Any liquids draining from your person for no apparent reason?"

"Alex, that's disgusting," he chided, pushing past the swinging doors. She looked over her shoulder to him and practically bounced over, giving him a warm kiss. His hand lingered on her waist as she stepped away.

"Sorry I didn't say hi," she said, going back to feeling Allison's tummy, "I just really wanted to see this bump. It gets cooler everyday Allison, I swear." Allison gave her an indulgent look and met his exasperated gaze over Alex's head.

"Any day now," she said cheerfully. "Sooner rather than later, I hope." She checked her watch and he noticed her anxiety.

"He should be home soon," Alex told her, "but the weather's absolute balls today." She paused. "Can I say that in front of the fetus?"

Later on, Tom returned home safely and made pasta for dinner and drank wine with everyone except for Allison, who, despite being pregnant, had never much cared for wine anyway, and Alex, who had always preferred beer.

"Charades!" Allison exclaimed.

"Excuse you," said Tom, who was clearing the dishes. Alex snorted.

"Charades is a game, dummy," she said. Tom looked blankly at her, then at Allison.

"Never heard of it."

"You're telling me you've never played Charades before? _Ever_?"

"Tom, even _I_ have played Charades, and I've lived for more than half a millennium. Shame on you."

Their evening was subsequently spent teaching Tom to play Charades.

Allison was up in front of them, and it was clear to him that she had picked up 'Leon Trotsky' (he knew this because it had been his prompt). Tom was staring blankly at her impression of him being beaten by an ice axe. Alex was laughing at Allison and had slid her arm through his and was nestled to his side.

"Jesus, Allison," she gasped, "I have absolutely no shitting clue. I give up!"

And suddenly, incongruously, he imagined how she would look with his child in her belly.

He was so staggered by the warmth that arose in him at the thought that he had to excuse himself. In the privacy of the upstairs bath, he leaned heavily on the counter, breathing heavily and counting to ten over and over. His fingers twitched and he wished he had his domino with him. He wished he hadn't cleaned the bath that morning, because now it was too tidy to clean again.

"Hal?" a knock on the door and a voice. Her voice. Shit.

He tried to level his voice. "Yes?"

"Are you okay? You kind of like ran out of the room. I mean, Tom's cooking has really got better, I thought he was doing really well." He would have laughed except for the ache in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm fine, go back to Tom and Allison," he said shortly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

She had always been unpredictable, though. Unpredictable, stubborn, wonderful…

The door opened – shit, he hadn't thought to lock it – and she came in, swinging herself up onto the counter beside him. She ran an appraising glance from his toes to his head, and raised her eyebrows.

"What's up?"

He threw his hands into the air. "I said, nothing!" she tapped her feet impatiently against the cupboards.

"Like hell. I know you better than that, Hal." She grinned, pleased with herself. "So? What's wrong? Are you suddenly imagining Allison naked and wondering how to tell Tom?"

He must have looked stricken because she whooped a laugh and said, "I'm only taking the piss. Now, tell me what's wrong or I'll actually say that to Tom."

He smiled slightly in spite of himself. "It's – stupid. I can't tell you."

She pouted. He wanted to kiss her until she smiled again. "Why ever not? Is it a guy thing? Are you experiencing certain _difficulties_?" she winked.

He rolled his eyes. "No, Alex, I think you'll find that I am fully functional and exemplary in every aspect."

Her gaze grew bold and she hopped lightly off the counter, stepping close to him. She slid her hand into his trousers and he closed his eyes.

"I might need some clarifying on that point," she whispered, and he was sure he'd distracted her (and himself) enough until, suddenly:

"Do you ever think about having children?"

_Fucking hell_.

She withdrew and stared at him.

He had never been able to divine her thoughts; her mind was an impregnable fortress.

He'd just fucked _everything_ up, hadn't he?

"Um," she licked her lips slowly, gaze shifting between his eyes, "do you?"

"Yes," he whispered, and she must have found the honesty in that one word because she gasped slightly. "I do."

She gave the briefest of smiles before kissing him soundly, and he wondered if she was the one doing the distracting, or if she was telling him something.

They didn't stop so he tentatively guessed it was the latter.

(He would never tell her that, just in case.)

_XV_

Alex was standing in Tom's room staring at the collage of newspaper clippings and photographs he'd accumulated over the fireplace. He knocked on the door and she jumped.

"Jesus Christ!"

"No, just me." He came to stand beside her, mirroring her earlier stance. "What are you looking at?"

"He really wants a family," she said, quietly. He glanced at her. She looked troubled.

"It would seem so," he replied, examining the collection more carefully. "The photos certainly emulate that theme."

She turned to face him. "Do you think we are one?"

"One what?" he was slightly perplexed.

"A family!" she said impatiently. "He's never really had one, has he? Are we – enough?"

He took his time to answer.

Finally, he turned to her, and ran his fingers up and down her arm soothingly. "I think he's very happy now. I think this is exactly what he wants." She looked so hopeful that he felt a pang of affection for her. "What did you think? He wouldn't be here if he wasn't satisfied."

"Where else would he go? He doesn't have anyone or anywhere else."

"Well, maybe that's what family means."

_XVI_

The days he liked best were the lazy days,

The days when he didn't have work and Tom didn't have work, either.

The days when they would watch movies like _Zouzou_ (and he'd say "I danced in that scene, behind Josephine Baker. Too bad it wasn't caught on film." And Alex would say, "Oh, yes, of _course_, since you're so good at everything else, you must be a dancer, too." And Tom would say, "Who's Josephine Baker?") and sit around in their pyjamas all day long and drink too much tea.

The days when he would wake before Alex did and he'd have the opportunity to memorize her features without her sticking her tongue at him and looking away, embarrassed by his staring.

The days when Alex was out and he was pining for her and Tom would suggest a game of chess, even though he knew that he was bollocks at it.

But most of all, the days he liked best were the days when he forgot everything except for them, and the mantelshelf that was growing dusty with disuse, and even the paper wolf because it reminded him of the sacrifices and the deaths and the loves and the futures but also the pasts.


	3. bones may break but i'll never be untrue

_I_

McNair said to never talk to strangers, especially tall men and dark men. McNair said never to talk to kids his age or older. McNair said to always say "thank you" when he got handed things and say "please" when he was asking for things. McNair said to keep his mouth shut and stay in the back of the van when he was gone, and even sometimes when he was there too.

But McNair never said what to do when the end of the world happened.

_II_

Since Alex was sound (he'd got it right, he knew she was) she came back to live with them and he was really pleased. She always said she didn't feel much like talking about what happened in Scotland so he never asked in case her eyes got wet again. And he tried not to show it but he felt happy when she wore his shorts round the house 'cause that meant she wasn't going anywhere and she was his friend.

He wasn't sure if Hal put the wolf on the mantel – he was good at the paper-folding thing – but if that was it, he wasn't going to say anything. Every day when he woke up and came downstairs he would look at it and feel sad for a little bit, because he felt more than half-empty without the wolf. Maybe it was in a good way but he had to get used to it first, because right now he felt naked and uncomfortable, because before he hadn't known what it felt like without. So now that there was a part of him missing, he wasn't sure if that was okay or if he wanted to get it back.

(What was he saying? Of course he wanted to get it back.)

_III_

It took him about a week before he got the nerve to ring Allison.

Okay, that was a lie. Alex got the nerve for him. She dialed Allison's number and ran away cackling when he yelled to give it back, and then she complained that she couldn't Rentaghost anymore and shoved the phone at him.

Maybe it was just him being scared but Allison sounded pretty nervous. Well. He was nervous too. He scratched the back of his head where his scars used to be and it made his heart do painful things. But then Allison was talking about visiting and it was her break from University so he decided that he felt better.

She came over and they talked for a really long time, even though she said she couldn't stay because she was supposed to be with her roommates back at University. It was dark and Hal and Alex had already gone to bed when he walked her to the door and she kissed him sweetly goodnight.

He went back up to his room and started working on his argument for a debate to convince Allison to move in with them.

_IV_

He kept his job as Assistant Manager of the Barry Grand, and Hal kept his too. Once or twice he caught Hal polishing his badge with pride in the tense lines of his shoulders and concentration in his funny threadbare eyebrows and he laughed before getting whacked with a tea towel.

_V_

He wasn't dumb like everyone thought; at least, he was once but he wasn't anymore. Not as much, anyway. He grew up and learned things, like how to detox a vampire and treat a ghost like a bloke and what to do with a girl. Before, he learned things that McNair said were life lessons, real important stuff, like the best place to stake a vampire and what kind of mushrooms not to pick in the forest and how to climb a tree. But anyway, he grew up and learned things and sometimes they didn't make sense because McNair told him one thing and real life told him something different.

Alex once said, all casual-like, that McNair didn't always have to be right, you know, he could have made mistakes.

And he shook his head and said no, no way, McNair's McNair and he don't make mistakes.

She smiled the way people did when they thought he was poor-looking and not as smart as them, except she made it look nice. Hal did too. That made him think that maybe he was wrong about that particular smile, that maybe he hadn't seen every smile there was, and that they'd made up a new one that meant something way different.

Something just for him.

_VI_

So it turned out that normal life was lots of things. It was nice, boring, fun, lazy, happiness, and normal.

(Normal was something he'd never had before, but there were days when he wondered:

He must have had a normal once; living in the woods in a truck with McNair used to be his normal.

Now everything else felt out of place somehow.)

He had a regular job and he also had friends. Like, not just Hal and Alex. He was getting new friends, and he didn't know it until one day he was laughing with some people in a bar and they called him their mate. And he thought, well, maybe that's what friends were. Undefined until they _were_ defined. Cause until they got a definition it wasn't really important to have a label, just that they were together.

Or some crock, Alex would finish for him if he were talking to her about it.

Except right now he had a suspicion that Alex and Hal were in the same room together doing "nothing" like they'd told him half an hour ago, when they snuck off separately and tried to be all subtle-like. Which he was really glad about. He was happy they'd sorted everything, 'cause the tension was driving him up the wall.

And he had Allison (well, almost but he was really close to convincing her) and then, then, finally, they would be a family.

Not like the kind in the photographs, 'cause in the photographs it was usually a mum, a dad, and a smiling kid wearing pigtails with their front tooth missing. But he learned that that wasn't the only kind of family – just like there wasn't only one kind of friend.

And he knew that Hal and Alex were sound, because even if they couldn't see it in each other's eyes, he could, and he knew nothing would happen that was bad. He hoped they saw it in his eyes, too. 'Cause when they were together, _Tom and Hal and Alex_, everything was right, and when they weren't together, _Tom, Hal, Alex_, everything was wrong.

And he was pretty sure they were all tired of wrong.

_VII_

For a little bit, they would all three of them sleep together in his bed because it was the biggest and they were all scared. And that was unconventional but it was also perfect. McNair said nightmares were for the weak-minded, and he was emphatically not weak-minded, said McNair, so he never had them. But Alex did, and Hal did, and he was more than happy to give them two-thirds of his bed to make them feel better.

And really it made him feel better too, because then he knew that if he ever got nightmares they would be there to get him to snap out of it and come back to normal, 'cause normal was what he was.

He was adding new definitions to the word 'family' every day and it just got better.

_VIII_

Tom, shouted McNair, Tom, do you have the stake? Do you have the stake I gave you?

Yeah, yeah, I got it. It's in my –

Shh! McNair hissed at him and he felt his eyes wetting but he swiped at his eyes. You mustn't give away where you are hiding your weapons. Yes?

Okay dad, he said, and he shivered. McNair didn't let him wear his new-old coat in case it got ruined, and they didn't have enough money for dry cleaning or a Laundromat.

A door slammed and rowdy voices shouted at the night air. McNair exhaled heavily and shifted in his crouch.

Are you ready, Tom? Are you ready? His breath was coming fast now.

Yeah, dad, I'm ready.

And you remember everything I've taught you, Tom?

Yeah, dad, I remember.

Are you scared, Tom?

The ultimate test.

He paused and thought just to make sure –

(McNair said never to lie)

– No.

Good boy.

And the voices got louder as they were getting closer and his heart was beating really fast, like, twice as fast as normal and he was feeling his heartbeat in the scars on his back and on his head and in his soul –

The vampires drew closer and he caught the gleam of McNair's eye and McNair jerked his head and he got up. And he walked up to the vampire, confident-like, just how McNair taught him.

You're out late, little boy, said the vampire. His teeth were yellow and his hair was dark. His nails were jagged and brown.

Yeah, he said. He sounded like he wasn't scared.

Poor little boy, all alone, late at night with no one to hear you scream, sing-songed the man.

He knew McNair was right behind him and stopped the tremor triggered by the vampire. He was safe. He was safe. He was safe.

What's your name?

Tom McNair, he said, pressing his lips together. The vampire sniffed, deep, and recoiled.

I thought I smelled _dog_, he hissed, curling into himself and snarling. What are you playing at, little boy? Want to get a beating?

McNair grabbed the shoulders and bared the chest and yelled, NOW!

And he ran up and tried to plunge the stake through the heart, just like he'd seen McNair do all the time. Except he didn't do it right (why didn't he do it right?) and he couldn't push the stake through the vampire's coat and he struggled and flexed his ten-year-old muscles and gritted his teeth and pushed the stake as hard as he could.

He heard some cracking noises and the vampire spewed blood from his mouth and nose and made a pitiful noise and fell down.

A minute later all that was left was his coat.

McNair was breathing heavy and wiping vampire blood from his hands. McNair turned to him and braced his hands on his shoulders.

Okay, Tom, he said with a wolfish smile. There was still blood on his face, on his teeth and his eyelashes. Tell me. Tell me what you are.

_iamtommcnairandijustkilledavampire._

_iamtommcnairandijustkilledavampire._

_IX_

Usually in the morning before the full moon, he would wake up feeling sick and afraid, and he would take more time than usual in getting up. He'd spend longer in the shower (he still savoured the feeling of the hot water pounding into his back and he remembered the first time he had a shower which wasn't that long ago) and eat twice as much for breakfast. He would drag his feet at work and Patsy would glare at him harder than usual, and then he would just feel worse and drag his feet more. And he would tell Hal that he'd be in the cellar, and Hal would try not to look sad or afraid, whatever that weird expression was on his face, and he would turn back to his dominoes. Alex would bite her lip and not say anything, and that made him think that she liked him a little less every time he brought it up – brought the wolf up.

(He'd always find a chocolate bar on top of his pile of clothes when he was let out the next morning though, and since Hal discouraged the eating of chocolate,

maybe he was wrong about Alex. Maybe she was stronger than he thought.)

But now, though, now there wasn't a change coming every full moon, it was a strange thing.

And he would find himself less eager to get out of bed than usual – just like before – except now he didn't eat as much and if Hal tried to slip him more fruit he would snap at him and withdraw into himself. And he tried, really he did, but he was pretty sure people at work would notice his bad mood and stay out of his way on purpose so he would find himself alone most of the day.

The first time the full moon came round and the wolf stayed gone, he cried.

The second time he put his fist through the window of the main bath and nobody mentioned it, they just got it fixed.

He really appreciated everything they did for him; sometimes he felt like he wasn't doing enough for them and tried harder and they probably noticed, but didn't say anything. But he didn't say when they did things for him, 'cause usually he was pretty gutted about something when they did stuff for him. He knew, though, that they all had secret smiles and corner-of-the-eye glances that told lots of stuff that couldn't be said with just words.

_X_

There was that one day when Hal almost died, because apparently Hal had a lot of problems.

Maybe died was an exaggeration, he really only had a fit; Hal crumbled and shouted and he had to close his hands over his ears because Hal's screams rent his heart in two with the anguish.

It was supposed to be a normal day, just any random Wednesday, and it just so happened that that morning before work Alex spilled some blood cutting an apple and it triggered Hal's… well, he didn't really know what it triggered, just that it was _something_.

Hal went white, almost translucent-like, and the cup in his hand flew to the floor and smashed into tiny patterned porcelain shards, and his fingers shook and his arms shook and his whole torso – no, his whole body – shook with tremors that forced him to the ground. He heard the grating sound of Hal's teeth as they clenched, hard, and nails raked through hair and fists pounded the kitchen tile.

Alex was standing, shocked, drops of blood exploding against the floor, falling, falling, falling and then, whoosh, splattering up from the little red puddle by her feet.

He thought for a second that Hal might try to suck the blood with his tongue but he just stayed curled over himself, tense, on the floor in front of them.

And when he screamed Alex jumped and a few more mugs toppled to the floor (it was no big deal, he hadn't liked them much anyway) and he had to shove Alex out the door because she'd started crying –

He didn't want her to see Hal like this, not like this, not when she'd seen him at his worst because his worst was supposed to be over and this shouldn't be happening. Not now not ever.

_Not now not ever._

Hal wasn't a vampire anymore. There. Final.

(He had to wonder: if you weren't a vampire anymore, could you still get the same urges?)

A few years ago, when he was dumber, he would have said Hal had some split-personality thing going on. But this wasn't a few years ago, and he was still pretty dumb but not _that_ dumb, and so he was smart enough to know that there never were two Hals, just one, and sometimes now he got upset and had to be calmed down.

And he was just a man, but he was a good man, and that must count for something.

_XI_

Some sunlit days, he mourned the wolf absent from him.

It confused him to no end because all his life he'd wanted a taste, just a quick taste, of what life would be like without the constant shadow, without the putrid scent of the wolf following his steps.

Allison would hold him tight, and her springy hair would brush against his cheek and he'd thank God (whoever he was, if he even _was_) that he had her because his bones and chest would ache without her silly dinosaur jumper.

Allison would hold him tight, and her springy hair would brush against his cheek and he'd think, fleetingly, of the paper wolf gathering dust in the front room.

And maybe a few tears would escape the corner of his eye at the thought because, God, he _wished_.

He wished so hard that it could all be real/he wished so hard that it was all a

L I E.

And Eve would always be a baby,

And there would always be dead animals on the side of the highway,

And _Antiques Roadshow_ would always be on the tele at a certain time slot,

And Hal would always fold his clothes neatly,

And he would always be in love with Allison,

And Alex would always stay because there was no place else.

There was no place else for any of them, them with their tattered souls.

_XII_

Alex was really bored of doing nothing and one day, she found an ad in the paper for a local yoga class.

"Hey, Allison," she called, "Wanna try some yoga?"

She was joking but Allison smiled and agreed, so Alex found herself being dragged to a yoga class later that week.

He came home from work that day and thumped up the stairs, hoping to find Hal doing press-ups because he was good to talk to when he was working out for some reason.

He passed by Alex's 'room' (she really didn't sleep there anymore, but she wasn't comfortable admitting it yet so he pretended to not notice anything) just in time to see her collapse to the ground. Alarmed, he was about to rush in until she shot up again, grumbling and straightening her shirt.

"Fucking tree pose," she muttered, and clasped her hands together and raised them above her head and stared at the ceiling and pressing her foot to her knee.

He stifled a laugh because she looked ridiculous.

She fell to the floor again a few seconds later and he tiptoed past her murmured swearing up to Hal's room.

_XIII_

McNair said that when the right girl came along, he would know it, and she would know it too. And until then, he couldn't be a bee to any other girl's flower. And he knew, now, that he was twenty-two years old and he had found the 'right girl' in Allison; he'd be a fool not to know. So he thought that it was probably time to make like a bee, 'cause she'd been living with them for six months (to the day actually, he took pride in counting every glorious day he woke up to her off-key humming) and they'd kissed a handful of times and neither of them had turned into werewolves (_pang_, went his heart) so he figured the time was right and she'd understand it too.

For their first time he imagined scented candles and long dresses and suits and flower petals and the colour red, like in the films and the magazine ads. For their first time he imagined a romantic dinner before (he would cook, of course) and he'd take her hand and lead her to their transformed bedroom and she would gasp and they would – you know.

They just _would_.

He'd read a bunch of library books about it and blushed and bit his nails trying to understand the diagrams and explanations. He thought he understood it now, even though it seemed a little difficult. He envied Hal and Alex 'cause they'd grown up normal and learned it and they seemed to have no logistical problems.

And God, if they never managed to – do it – anyway, or if they did and he wasn't good, or any of the horrible possibilities he'd been imagining, he knew it didn't really matter that much because Allison was his One.

The One that McNair always talked about, The One he once wasn't old enough to have yet, or The One who wasn't Nina because she was George's One.

But he was stupid, and well aware of that, and she was brilliant, and he was well aware of that too.

(She still stayed with him though and it always made him breathless.)

_XIV_

There will be a time when, years from now, he'll be playing football with his son in the front yard and Allison will be reading an intellectual book on the steps. Hal and Alex will be upstairs doing "nothing" like they'll have told him half an hour ago, when they'll have snuck off separately and tried to be all subtle-like, since a decision will have been made about kids – that is the dumbed-down version given to him.

And at this time, when his son will kick the football and he will catch it and they will all three of them rejoice –

(Allison will only pretend to be reading, because she has always worried about their son getting hurt)

– and he definitely, really _will not_ think of the paper wolf, long ago ripped to shreds and tossed in the bin and probably recycled into new paper somewhere for someone else to twist and fold into something more benign than the promise of oblivion.

And at this time, when he will ruffle the brown hair on his son's head and curl his arm around Allison's shoulder, at this time, finally, he will be

home.


End file.
